1. Amanda

CHAPTER 1

Amanda

THREE MONTHS LATER

R unning is therapy.

At least that's what I tell myself. Over and over and over again.

This is good for you.

Don't quit.

Keep going.

This is hell.

I'm literally going to die.

Why am I doing this to myself?

Can I stop now?

I'm going to stop.

And I often do stop and try and catch my breath until some other jogger blasts past me and then my ultra-competitiveness kicks in and I end up running after them. Sometimes I can't catch up but at least it gets my legs moving again. Other times I run past them with a nonchalant look on my face, ponytail swinging behind me like running is super fun, super cool, totally no big deal for this girl, only to collapse around the corner in a heaving mess minutes later.

But somehow I keep doing it, every day. At first I started running because it was the only way I could shake out my frustration. I tried taking kickboxing classes, but they kept conflicting with my class schedule and I accidently punched my instructor in the face, so that was a sign to move on. Running seems to be a better fit. I can go at my own pace, pick my times, and best of all for my inner hermit, I don't have to see or talk to anyone. It's just me and the ground beneath my feet. Well, and my stupid brain that constantly reminds me what hell running is.

And even though it clears my head—believe me, I've done a lot of thinking ever since Alan and I broke up—it just never seems to get easier. I'm waiting for that moment where it's painless, easy, and fun, and that just hasn't happened yet. Maybe it never will. Maybe that's why people run. They're chasing something they'll never get, the dangling carrot of promises that all hard things eventually get easy.

Today's run isn't easy, but at least it's beautiful. It's early March, and chartreuse buds are just starting to make their appearance on the tips of barren limbs. The ocean, slate grey and churning, foams against the rocky shoreline. In the far distance, Washington's Olympic Peninsula is hidden, shrouded by low, dense clouds that like to sit in Haro Strait between the two countries like some sort of tribunal council. It's still cold and damp, and the sun can barely penetrate the cloud cover, but I know in a few months, hell even a few weeks, our daylight hours will be long, the air will turn warm, and my usual jogging path along Oak Bay will start to swarm with the elderly out for their daily walk or happy couples making out on park benches. Hopefully by then I'll be able to handle couples, or just happy people in general.

After I turned down Alan's proposal, puked on him, and made a general mess of things, we both decided we couldn't work it out. Alan was beyond humiliated, changing from the easygoing boy I loved to a stranger who hated the sight of my face. I hadn't been quite prepared for the split in his personality, especially as I only saw the nice guy over the last four years. I guess he'd been hoarding a whole lot of negative emotion toward me, and it all started coming out. Like vomit. But meaner and less gross.

(I promise I'll stop talking about puke, it's just so fitting right now.)

I can't blame him for being angry with me, because I was angry with myself. If only I'd confronted those feelings, the whole thing could have been avoided. But he was my first real relationship, my first love, the guy I lost my virginity to, all those big things, and I thought the feeling of boredom and complacency was normal. What I didn't think was that we would be in a pressure cooker. Even though we'd been together for so long, I was still in university for two more years, and we were young. I mean, Alan still had four years of dental school left. I really didn't think marriage was on his radar.

Of course there were all the clues. Asking about ring sizes and where we'd go on our honeymoon and how many children I wanted. Okay, so they weren't even clues, more like obvious signs that he was going to ask me. But I skirted around those questions and laughed them off, and well, no one is laughing now.

Naturally, after I publicly rejected him, I had to move out of the apartment we were sharing. But instead of moving back home like my parents wanted me to, I decided to find a roommate and get the hell out of Dodge.

It was the right choice. Not only is my current place super close to the University of Victoria, it has put some much needed distance between me and my parents (you can only hear about what a horrible choice you've made so many times). And I have a pretty awesome roommate.

Okay, maybe awesome isn't the right word. But she provides me with distraction and entertainment, and half the shit she says is slowly ending up in my novel in the guise of a hilarious sidekick.

When I first saw the ad for a female roommate on Craigslist, I somehow assumed that it would be another U-Vic student. The location was in Oak Bay, it was a two-bedroom basement suite…I assumed it was another twenty-something needing a roommate to save a buck. But Ana Vainola ended up being a forty-four-year-old Estonian woman who was as tall as an Amazonian with fake boobs that could poke your eyes out, Juvéderm-filled lips, a tan that looked like she was doused in Orange Crush even under the best light, and the loudest, rapid-fire laugh I'd ever heard. She was also a recent divorcée, and even though we're two decades apart and were raised in two totally different worlds, our transition from "taken" to the single life made us bond like nothing else. I've only been with her a few months, and even though she uses me as a guinea pig every night while she practices makeup for her beauty schooling, I can't imagine living anywhere else.

I suppose I could live by myself, but the thing is, even though I've been a self-proclaimed hermit my whole life, being alone right now scares me. Living with Ana lets me concentrate on my studies and my novel, yet whenever I need a break and a chance to escape from my head, she's right there, ready for a laugh or a lecture on how to prepare for the apocalypse.

At the moment though, she's at her beauty school and I have to shower and change and get ready for my writing class. When she's not here, I can usually get out the door in ten minutes. If she's here, I usually end up being sucked into a random conversation about pickles or rifles or uncircumcised penises (all of which came up over breakfast this morning).

When I'm done in the shower, I pull on some leggings, a long grey sweater that covers my ass (which hasn't shrunk from my running like I thought it would), and slick on just enough makeup to say I tried, then pull my wet hair back into a bun, put on my glasses, and head out the door.

I have a car, a Mini Cooper (a high school graduation present from my parents), and though I don't drive to school often because I feel like a douche, today I'm running late so I'm zipping over, hoping I'll be able to find a parking spot near the classroom. That's one of the reasons I don't drive—the time it takes to find a spot is about the same amount of time to take the bus, plus on the bus you're staying green, and it's a great excuse to listen to music and people watch. I think most of my best characters have come from dealing with Victoria's public transportation system.

Thankfully, I find a parking spot right by the building. My teacher, Professor Marie Dumas, may be carefree and encouraging and all sorts of weird (which I personally love), but she's a stickler for tardiness and academic excellence. When you're late, or you half-ass an assignment, she takes it personally. I've seen her tear up over giving a low grade before. But Writing Fiction 200 is one of my favorite classes and I give it everything I've got. After all, the writing program is my future, and a way to still get an education and my parents off my back while doing what I love. It's like a piggy bank for my dreams, ensuring that no matter what happens in my future, I'll always have this to back me up. It's a reminder that I've fought to stay true to myself, even if my life doesn't go to plan.

After I park and run into the building, I pass my classmate Ali on the stairs, though she's running away from class instead of going to it.

"Where are you going?" I ask her.

She pauses on the stairwell and gives me a sharp look under her razor-cut bangs. "I'm not feeling well," she says, even though she sounds more pissed off than sick.

I watch her go and then shrug to myself before reaching the top of the stairs. My friend Rio is hanging outside the door to class texting someone, leaning against the wall and twirling her curly dark hair around her finger like someone out of a John Hughes film.

"Thought you weren't going to show," she says as I approach, snapping her gum between her teeth. "I just texted you."

I pull my phone out of my suede saddle bag and glance at the text blazing on it.

Where you at? We're getting our final assignment today. Also, I lost my bra last night so I'm wearing Saran Wrap instead.

You'd think I'd be shocked by a text like this but not when it comes to Rio. I glance up at her, my gaze going directly to her boobs. "Uh, what?"

"She's giving us our final assignment."

"Yeah, but more about the Saran Wrap in place of a bra…" I point out.

"Long story," she says, then leans in closer, her dark eyes dancing. "But it works. Just in case you end up sleeping with some guy who keeps comparing your vagina to the Rio Grande. I don't think he realized he was being insulting, especially after we finished off a bottle of Crown Royal while playing a Game of Thrones drinking game, but needless to say, I got out of his place and didn't think about the bra until now."

I frown, trying hard not to laugh. "But you have other bras, I'm sure."

"Oh, I didn't go home after that," she says, and I don't press her on it. If she wants to share the details, she'll share. "Anyway, I hope Marie gives us something more exciting than our last assignment."

"No kidding," I tell her, even though I'm lying. Honestly, I liked our last assignment, which was to write a short nonfiction story about ourselves without embellishing a word. My description of high school was like a less entertaining (and less murderous) version of Heathers . And even though this last project is the equivalent of our final exam, I can't wait to tackle it. I'm a total nerd, I know, but every assignment Marie has given us has really challenged me and keeps improving my prose. Plus, not to toot my own horn, but I have aced every project so far. Her edits and notes on my writing are like a drug, validation that I desperately crave, especially when no one else in my life seems to take my writing seriously.

I look around. "Hey, I saw Ali run off. Is she okay?"

Rio shrugs, adjusting her laptop bag on her shoulder. "I don't know. She stepped in the class, said something to Blake, and then ran off."

Ugh. Blake Crawford. Pretty much the worst human to ever grace this earth. No exaggeration needed.

"Were they dating?" I ask. Ali wears a permanent scowl, is super intelligent, and is pretty much the last person I'd imagine going after the fuckboy, manwhore, jackass that is Blake.

She rolls her eyes. " Fucking , Amanda, not dating. What else is new? He probably broke her heart and her vagina. Or vice versa."

"I wasn't aware Ali had a heart to break." I don't comment on her vagina.

"Guess she does. Serves her right. You can't play the player without getting played." She says this gravely, even though when it comes to Rio I'm not sure whether she's the ultimate player she seems to be or she's been screwed over once or twice. She has this bright, bubbly personality that masks anything that gets too close to heart. It's probably why, when I first met her in our writing program, we hit it off right away. She lightens me up and forces me to see the glass half full. At least, she's trying.

We take our usual seats near the front as I scan the room. Sure enough, Blake is in his corner, headphones on, and grinning at his phone. Probably watching a YouTube video on how to be a douchebag.

I can't stand his grin. In fact, I hate everything about him. I know, I don't really know him and hate's a strong word, but I have my reasons. He's the type of guy who would have made my high school years a living hell, only now I get to deal with his immaturity in university. Thank god I only have one class with him, otherwise all my time would be spent thinking of witty comebacks to his insults and insinuations.

I don't even know why he's in the class at all, mind you. He's a third year student and transferred from England last year, getting his business degree. Not sure how writing plays into any of it, but however it does, he doesn't take anything seriously. It's like writing and books and literature are one big joke to him, and I'm not the kind of person to take that lightly. Sure, maybe I get a bit too serious at times, whether it comes to writing or school, but that's because, well…I need to.

Then there's the fact that he's a self-proclaimed sex god that every girl seems to lose their damn head over. It's like the sight of him causes any vestiges of self-respect to evaporate, and girls practically throw themselves at his feet. I've seen it happen in this class—first with Monique, then Lisa, then Kendra, now Ali. The only upside to this continuous classmate walk of shame is that at least it makes class more interesting when every tragic poem and angry short story seems to be directed at Blake. It's like watching one of those train wreck reality shows unfold before your very eyes.

I just don't get it. Surely they can all see it's an act. Even if he's good in bed, how the hell does he even get you there?

Okay, well maybe it's because he's not exactly hard on the eyes. I'd be blind if I said Blake wasn't good looking. He is. I can admit it. I can find men attractive without actually being attracted to them (I used to think that about Brad Pitt, but he's changing my mind as he gets older). Blake is tall and lean with just the right amount of muscle, thick dark hair that's always a bit rumpled, and deep blue eyes that sometimes seem black. You know, the kind of looks that most girls want. Maybe even the kind that might blind you to the point of making a string of unhealthy decisions that ultimately help fuel their writing goals. I don't know.

Unfortunately, all of his beauty is spoiled by his shit-eating grin, which, as I said earlier, is probably his best and worst feature. Best because he flashes it all over the place and women spontaneously combust like matches are struck on their ovaries. Worst because I know what that grin represents: cockiness, arrogance, and one hell of an ego. There's nothing that bothers me more than guys who think you'd be lucky to have them, though now when I think about it, that's pretty much Alan to a tee. He was a lot subtler about it, but he did have this air of denigration that made me think he was taking pity on me half the time. Maybe that's why Blake bugs me so much.

Or maybe it's because he's an ass.

"All right everyone." Marie enters the room with a tepid grin, taking her place behind her desk, her long fringed shawl and beaded bracelets rattling as she puts her hands together and does this thing where she tries to look everyone in the class right in the eye. Marie is pretty much the stereotype of a creative writing professor. Her hair is waist-length and steel grey, she's always wearing some sort of heavy gemstone around her neck, and she smells vaguely of patchouli. Sometimes marijuana. As I mentioned before, she's a stickler for certain rules and can turn hard on a dime, even though she speaks with a fairy-like quality and her view toward life is one of both a free spirit and a bleeding heart.

"Who here is excited for your final assignment?"

"Me!" I say a little too loudly. I have to supress myself from raising my arm like some kind of keener. Still, I refuse to look sheepish about it. Everyone here knows that about me by now.

Especially Blake. I can't help but look over in his direction, and lo and behold he's rolling his eyes. He doesn't even glance my way to see if I notice; it's like an automatic reaction for him.

"Well," Marie says as she walks around the front of her desk. "I should let you all know that this assignment is a deviation from what you've been given so far." She leans back against the desk and folds her arms, her smile soft and somewhat pitying. Unease prickles the back of my neck. "Being a writer is hard work. Harder than you'll ever think possible. What makes it even worse is the fact that right now, for nearly all of you, writing is easy. You write down what comes from your heart. All struggle is rooted in the outcome, the fear of the grade, the pressure of the deadline. But not in putting down the words, not in telling the story. At this stage, all of you can just, as Hemingway once said, sit down at the typewriter and bleed. But for many writers, and to borrow a popular cliché, it's like getting blood from a stone. You have the want and the desire, but with experience and time, your self-doubt becomes louder and your inner critic comes out to play. It silences your creativity. You feel you aren't allowed to make mistakes."

Marie's tone is so serious that even Blake has stopped looking at his phone and is watching her with a furrowed brow.

"Writing is hard," she continues. "It gets harder when it becomes your career, your job, because it's no longer a hobby, it's no longer a manuscript hidden in your desk drawer. It becomes a platform from which the world can judge you. Your soul becomes target practice, and the critics hold the arrows. I'm not saying this to scare or discourage you, because I've been teaching this class a long time and I know nothing will discourage a wannabe writer more than harsh reality. I don't have to say a word. If it's in you, it's in you, and you will persevere no matter the cost, no matter how hard it is, because that's what you are born to do. To throw another cliché your way, the only way to fail is to quit."

She lets out a long breath of air and stares down at her wrists, adjusting her bracelets. "That all said, you need to know that this class, so far, has been a breeze. This has been about exploring your creativity without fear of judgement or mistakes. It's been about honing your skills, the craft, about improvement. I have not touched on the actual challenges of writing in the real world…but with this last assignment I will do just that."

I exchange a quick glance with Rio. She looks just as worried as I do. I hope we don't have to submit a story for a contest or a newspaper or something that will be printed in public because Marie is right, I don't think I'm ready for that yet. Baring all to the classroom and sharing our work with each other so far has been hard enough, even though I know I write better than most of them.

"For this last assignment," Marie says, standing up straighter, "I have decided to push you out of your comfort zone. To force you to take risks. And most of all, to teach you to embrace something, a skill that will become crucial as you make writing your career, even though it seems to go against every anti-social, introverted bone in your body. I know a lot of you in here wouldn't classify yourselves as such." She nods at Rio and Blake and a few others, who don't exactly fit the image of a quiet, lonely writer. "But when it comes to writing, we all shut down and internalize everything. That's the nature of the game. We reach deep within ourselves to pull up all the muck and the dirt and the roots of who we are. But when you're working with editors and publishers and marketers and librarians and whomever else comes your way, you realize that though writing is a lonely, isolating, primarily selfish profession, you need to be able to work well with others in order to make this your job."

"What if we don't want to make it our job?" Camelia Parsons says, raising her hand. I swear this girl is half the reason why book pirating is so rampant. "Making money has never been an issue. It's not why I write. I write to bare my soul, regardless if it sells or who reads it."

Marie shoots her a placating smile. "Then all the power to you. But if that's all you envision, writing for a hobby, then you can't truly care about bettering yourself, about learning the craft. We learn so that we may succeed, and that goes for anything in life, including the arts. It's a falsity that the moment we earn money or wish to earn money for our creations that it ceases to become art. If that's truly what you believe, that sales don't matter, then you need to question what you hope to get out of this. After all, art isn't just about creating. It's about sharing. And whether you want the sales or don't need the money at all, what you do need is all eyes on your work. You want to be recognized. You want to be seen."

"No disrespect, Professor," Blake says in his British accent, biting his lip for a moment. All eyes in the class swivel toward him. I know that he can't possibly be one of the artists that Marie is talking about—he's just another college kid looking for an easy elective to get his final grade. "But I'm curious as to what you're getting at. Just tell us. We can take it. After all, we've survived this long with you as our teacher."

Marie raises a bushy eyebrow but that's the extent of her reaction. How he doesn't get a rise out of her, I don't know. Marie is always a lot tougher on the guys in the class than the girls, but with Blake she seems to let things slide.

"Right you are, Mr. Crawford," she says. That's the other thing. Always calling him Mr. Crawford, as if he's not just another college student. Must be the accent. It gives him an air of respectability that fogs out all of his other shortcomings.

She clears her throat and eyes us all. "Excuse me. You know I'm prone to a tangent with the best of them. The point of the final assignment is this—to make writing hard. To force you to think outside the box. And to ensure you learn to work well with others. Your final assignment is to write a twenty to thirty-thousand-word novella with another person in class."

There are a few gasps. I look over at Rio with wide eyes, hoping we can pick our partners. Writing with someone has never been on my agenda, but I think if writing with Rio were an option, we could really make it work. We're on opposite sides of the spectrum, but that might just bring out the best in both of us.

Marie goes on. "I know you have a short time span, but this will also help hone writing under a deadline. My hope for all of you is to share the work evenly. Whether you trade off chapters or point of views, or collaborate on each and every sentence, you should hope to contribute ten to fifteen thousand words each, which is about the same length as the last assignment. The only caveat here is…" She pauses, and this is when her sympathetic smile comes back into play. "That you don't get to choose your partner. I will choose them for you."

Ah. Shit. Rio grimaces, even though I know it's more for me than for her. She has this easy ability to get along with almost everyone, girls, guys, animals, plants. Me, on the other hand, I'm not so lucky. I'm not socially awkward, but to be honest, most people are total morons, and my tolerance for them isn't very high. Some have patience. I do not. And especially not when it comes to writing.

Marie twists behind her and picks up a piece of paper, clearing her throat before she starts going down the list. Rio gets paired with Ali, who of course isn't here. She's lucky though—Ali is one of the smart ones, and after whatever happened with Blake, she probably has enough emotional torment driving her to take on the whole project by herself.

"Holly McGuire, your partner will be Alice Oakes," Marie says, and while those two come to terms with it, her eyes meet mine, and not only do I know I'm next, I know I'm in deep shit. "Amanda Newland," she says, drawing out the pause, "your writing partner for this assignment will be Blake Crawford."

Silence sinks over the room.

Then someone titters.

"Oh, this should be lovely," Blake says from across the room, his voice dripping with sarcasm, his accent somehow amplifying it.

I can't even look at him though. I'm frozen in place, stuck staring at Marie with my mouth open a few inches. She can't be serious. There has to be some mistake.

But there is no mistake because Marie keeps going, listing off the rest of the partnerships while I'm left reeling. I can tell Rio is saying something to me, and I know that Blake is probably hurling British insults under his breath, but I honestly can't hear a thing because all I can think is that if this isn't a joke—and sadly, it doesn't seem to be—I'm not really sure what I've done to deserve it. Has Marie hated me this whole time? Maybe she has. Maybe she thinks I'm untalented, or a hack. Maybe all those As were just pity grades and now her real feelings are coming out. Maybe I've done something to her or said something or written something that she's found offensive, and this is her chance to get back at me. I mean, this is turning something I love into a living hell. I would rather get a bad grade than have to work—fucking write —with Blake.

I have to talk to her after class. I have to explain that there's been a mistake and I'm sorry for whatever way I've wronged her (is it possible she's telepathic and she's read my thoughts about her eyebrow hair? Because if so, I'm very, very sorry). I will work with anyone else at all, but this, I don't deserve this. The art of writing doesn't deserve this.

But after she's spent the class droning on and on about the dangers of adverbs and passive sentence structure and I finally approach her, it's apparent she doesn't feel the same way I do.

"The pairings were entirely random," she tries to assure me as she gathers up her notes, the class quickly emptying, no one else apparently having issues like I do. "That said, I don't think there's anyone in this class that will impede your ability to tell a story."

"It's just that…" I'm searching for a way to say this without sounding like a total brat. "I take writing seriously. And for my final assignment, I really don't want to do this entire class—and you—an injustice by ruining everything I've worked so hard for."

She gives me a quick smile and places her hands, long fingers adorned with turquoise rings, on my shoulders. "You will not ruin anything, Amanda," she says, looking me dead in the eyes. "You're a great writer with a lot of talent. But you're young and you have a lot to learn. Writing isn't just about exposing ourselves. It's about learning. I think your partnership with Blake, with anyone really, will teach you things you never knew you needed to know."

And just like that she leaves the room and leaves me stewing over her mumbo jumbo.

I'm lucky I don't have any other classes after this one, so I get in my car and immediately head home. Well, first I stop by the liquor store to pick up a bottle of wine, then I head home, prepared to unleash all my pent-up rage upon poor Ana.

Only Ana isn't home. Then I remember she said she had a date after class with some guy she met on a dating app for divorcées. I should be relieved that I'm alone, and happy that she's seeing someone, but I'm not either of those things, and even though it's not dark yet, I open the bottle of pinot gris and pour myself a glass, then I open a can of cheese ravioli and heat it up. I sit at the small oak table in our kitchen that Ana has adorned with an embroidered coral and white runner, watch the sun go down through the narrow windows, and try and think my way through this while eating my single girl meal.

I decide to text Rio.

How much sadder can my life get? Not only am I paired with Blake, I'm drinking pinot and eating canned ravioli by myself. At least it's organic.

She doesn't respond right away, but that doesn't surprise me. Rio is currently going through a string of fuck-boys, and who knows, she might still be looking for her bra.

I shovel the ravioli in my mouth and sigh. Marie is testing me. She wants to see what I'm made of. She wants me to prove that I really can write and handle whatever is thrown my way. That's fine. I'll have to rise to the challenge. It won't be pretty, but I will get it done.

By the time I'm halfway through the bottle, I'm feeling more empowered and emboldened than ever. Not enough to answer a call coming through from my mother, the usual guilt trip over my life choices and a very detailed update on how poor forsaken Alan is doing, but enough to write an email to my new partner.

At the start of the school year, Marie made us all exchange phone numbers and emails with each other. I guess she wanted a community feel to the group, especially considering that we would all be sharing our writing. Naturally, I haven't used the contact info for anything since I've really only made an effort with Rio, but the time has come to reach out and make peace.

Be the bigger person , I tell myself. Nip this in the bud.

Hey Blake,

It's Amanda from Writing 200. Just wanted to touch base with you before the weekend regarding our writing assignment. I'm cognizant that we possess a lot of freedom with this byzantine project, but even so I think we need to discuss our intent and the subsequent strategy we need to follow. We only have so many weeks and I think the sooner that we establish a schedule, as well as all the normal logistics such as story, plot, and characters, the sooner we'll have a chance at success, ensuring this partnership will be an easy one. Providing, of course, that we remain disciplined and meticulous throughout the endeavor.

I'm available anytime this weekend if you want to get together to discuss our implementation. I think if we distillate on the main points during our initial meeting, we can complete the assignment on our own without much interference from each other going forth.

Amanda.

I sit back and read it over. Okay, it's a bit too wordy and I'm not sure if I've used the word "distillate" correctly, but I've just put it in there to throw him off, to let him know who he's dealing with. I also hope that by taking charge like this and setting the initiative, I'm creating a very professional—and very valuable—paper trail. AKA, when this project goes to hell, at least I have the proof to give to Marie that shows I tried.

Something tells me from now on nothing is going to be as easy as it seems.

I press send.

I wait.

And wait.

Open up a bag of pistachios and eat a few of them.

Nothing yet from Blake.

But a new text from Rio comes in:

You'll be fine, you know how to put him in his place. P.S. I'm in the process of getting my bra back right now. Turns out this dude hid it under his pillow for safe keeping. Not sure whether to fuck him again or just get the hell out. I'm hiding in the bathroom and I think the window is just big enough to squeeze through.

I can't help but smile at the phone. I actually wouldn't mind being in her situation for once. Juggling fuckboys and having endless sexual adventures (and misadventures) sure beats being Miss-Lonely-Hearts-Stick-in-the-Mud.